


Semper Ad Meliora

by VintageFeline



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Eventual Romance, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mentions of War, Recovery, Slow Burn, focus on ludwig beilschmidt and feliciano vargas, in terms of country relations, not historically accurate really, not really the actual country relations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VintageFeline/pseuds/VintageFeline
Summary: After the end of the second world war, Germany- or rather, Ludwig Beilschmidt- has the task of recovering from everything that happened to him; physically, emotionally, socially, and mentally. The errors of his previous boss had serious effects on him, and it will be a long path to being almost normal again.He never held the same views as his leader. He was brainwashed to be loyal. But that doesn't change that he did unthinkably horrible things. No one wants to help him as a person; he's left in the dust and rubble of his bombed-out home, bleeding to death several times over, wanting to die but unable to do so. It seems like there's no hope for him; no one will ever love him again."Semper Ad Meliora". Always Towards Better Things.
Relationships: Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Broken Man, Broken Home

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few things I want to clarify with this fic.  
> \- This does NOT touch on what happened during the war; there may be some passing mentions, but since this fic focuses on the human representation of the country, naturally Ludwig and Feliciano are not going to mention what horrible things happened.  
> \- I simply wanted to write what happened between the human representations; I find the concept interesting and I wanted to explore it.  
> \- The character of Russia during the time of the Soviet Union is completely different in my headcanons, so he's not the smiley-sweet man that I usually write him as. It's hard to explain, but think how Bucky from Marvel was controlled by certain 'trigger' words; Russia's government did the same to him, and he follows their orders. He doesn't make his own decisions.

The fall of a once powerful nation wasn’t pretty. Never was and never would be. Sometimes, nations went down peacefully, willingly giving up their seats as nations and passing their mantel on to a new era. But many, many did not. 

Germany wasn’t one of those nations. Driven hungry by power and a promise for more and more land, he was crazed and Didn’t want to give up. It proved to be a big problem, then. Even as he bled from multiple wounds, was getting weaker and weaker, the mindset of his leader was cemented in his own. Through angry, bloodshot eyes and a steely blue gaze, he glared. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. 

Battle after battle, blow after blow, Germany stood his ground. He didn’t care about his own state, he didn’t care that his own population was shrinking… he just wanted more of everyone else’s. And he’d stop at nothing to do that. He followed his leader, his tyrant, with blind adoration for everything. To himself, he seemed powerful. To everyone else, he seemed controlled, like a dog willing to do anything for it’s owner and not caring how it felt itself. 

Only Prussia, Gilbert, could see how everything went down. He stayed away, but he knew. He saw. He could feel exactly how it all happened. Germany was kept away from the public, that he knew. Another way to be controlled; he couldn’t see the harm he was doing. He couldn’t see himself, he couldn’t see the land, all he could do was hear the words of his leader and assume that it was helping when in actuality, it wasn’t.

Pointless missions were a common occurrence; going to islands that didn’t belong to anyone to claim it. Never in real battles, only on missions under surveillance by his leader. His guard. His captor.

It was taking a toll on him; everyone could see it. Much like the Soviet Union, he was powerful, and yet… he was sickly. At some point his power became too much and he began to crumble. His eyes, once so blue and naïve and full of wonder, were dark with exhaustion, smudged purple underneath and bloodshot with… well. Blood. Whose was a mystery. Was it his own or a representation of reality? With so much blood being spilled? Regardless of all of that, he was determined, and pressed on no matter what. It was tiring just _watching_ him overwork himself. 

Italy slipped from his grasp, and it angered him. He never said anything bad about him, not verbally. But with the glares, the growls, the sheer aura of hate, it was obvious. Germany loathed Italy in a different way. He loathed Italy. Not Feliciano. Not the person. Just the decision. 

It was simply downhill from there. He was overwhelmed, and with the obvious defeats setting in especially by the Soviet Union, he was barely holding on. It seemed like every single world meeting, he was in worse condition. At first, it was small wounds, bandaged most likely before the meeting. Hastily, too. But he ignored them, passionately announcing that he was doing just fine and his leader was the best. It clearly wasn’t true. 

The next meeting seemed like another world of problems; he had a bandaged head, one eye covered with the linen cloth, arm in a sling. It was quick, and it almost made some feel bad for him. _Almost_. He wasn’t one to be pitied. Everyone knew. 

The world meetings occurred every six months, meeting in one place or another. They were mandatory attendance, so everyone could simply _watch_ Germany destroy himself. 

The next time they saw him, everything was worse. Indescribably worse. He was almost delirious, holding onto the last dregs of hope as he insisted he was doing better. His leader and country would pull through. 

They didn’t. 

All at once, it was too much. Germany’s leader, said to be killed in action, was less that and more… killed by himself, personally. Quickly. Easily. Almost a cruel jab at Germany, who had to bear the burden for so much longer. 

It was during a world meeting that Germany surrendered. He was beyond destroyed, the previously bandaged arm missing. His eye, which had seemingly healed before, was cloudy and unseeing like the other. His nose, his head, neither would stop bleeding. It was obvious that he was destroyed. He could barely walk, and halfway through, he lost his ability to stay upright. Every time he coughed, it was incredibly and visibly painful, crimson staining his lips. 

Never before had anyone seen a nation so defeated, but never before had anyone hated another nation so much. 

Japan, almost in the same condition as Germany had been the previous meeting, was alone in his fight against the world, now. He loathed Germany almost as much for dropping out, but Germany barely could register the words, slumping heavily against his chair. 

Now was the fight that sort of occurred, only sort of because there was no physical fighting. It was rather a disagreement between the Soviet Union and America, who each argued that they were more responsible to take over— or, rather, monitor— Germany. They finally agreed that maybe it was best to split it and see how well their sides improved and therefore who would be able to take over the entirety of the country. 

Of course, this greatly concerned Germany, who was listening best he could. The fact that he might be split in half? He had no idea what sort of problems that would bring. What would happen to him? He couldn’t imagine what it would do. 

With great effort, he heaved himself forward. The only rational part of his mind left, the thinker, the calculator turned its gears one last time. He couldn’t be split in half if he himself was only one half. His brother was saddened by the fact that he would no longer be a country, so clearly this was a good opportunity. “I hereby… bestow... upon my b-brother, the former nation of Prussia, the mantle of… Eastern Germany.”

The others stared in confusion, vague murmurs of surprise flitting through the crowd. Was he allowed to do that? What would happen?

The Soviet Union, who had already decided to monitor the eastern half of Germany, grinned. Even if it was only some of the country, he knew how much stronger he could get. “Very good.”

Germany himself had half expected that he would heal quite quickly, now that half of the country’s troubles were on Prussia, or rather, East Germany. No such luck. In fact, he cried out loudly as a white-hot flash of pain shot up his spine. It wasn’t _in_ his spine, but rather along it, up the skin on his back. It was unbearable, tears unwillingly surging from his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. He wanted it to _stop_. He needed it to. It was so intense, so painful, he couldn’t bear it, letting out a sob and a cry for help. No one moved. Germany deserved this, they figured. 

He only found out, through his daze later on, that his back had split. The physical representation of splitting in two, quite literally. 

After he had been bandaged, the meeting long since dismissed, America slung Germany’s arm over his shoulder, propping him up. 

“Can you walk?”

He shook his head ever so slightly, mind hazy and unfocused. Every step felt like a bolt of lightning had struck his nerves and while theoretically he could walk, he didn’t want to. 

He felt America let go and stumbled a bit at the sudden loss of support, but after only a few seconds, his chest was pressed to America again. His back. America was going to carry him on his back. He felt himself be lifted with ease, and almost as soon as he did, he relaxed against the man beneath him. Not because it was a relief, but more because he wasn’t even sure where they were going at this point. Just let the current take him as if he were a dead fish. At this point, that’s basically what he felt like. And probably smelled like, too. 

He was in and out of consciousness as they went along; he couldn’t register when he was awake or asleep, or where he was going, or if he was being laid down. Maybe he was walking alongside America. Germany had no recollection of it. 

All at once, America stopped. It brought Germany out of his haze.

“Do you recognize this place, Germany?”

Not the sight. Only because he couldn’t see. But the scent was all-too-familiar. Home. “W-w-why…?”

“You’re staying here. In your house. You can’t see it, can you?” America asked, resuming to walk, but at a much slower pace. “You recognize it, yes?”

He let out a sound, probably a yes. He could almost taste the potatoes and meat roasting, the taste of beer and the sugary taste of cookies. But… something cloaked it. Something was off. The sound of gravel under America’s feet, the acrid scent of smoke, gasoline, and dust. It was wrong. It wasn’t good. 

“It was bombed. You bombed your own home.” America pulled away suddenly, leaving Germany to stumble and fall to his knees. Based on memory, he should be in the entryway, but there was no such thing; instead, there was empty space on either side and large piles of rubble beneath him. 

His heart clenched, knees burning with pain. As he moved his hands to find something to stand up with. Instead he found a picture frame… probably the one of his brother and him. “No…”

“Yes. If you could see, you’d be able to see what you’ve done. Your people suffered. You suffered. And it’s _all your fault._ ”

“It’s not,” he protested weakly, barely paying attention to what America was doing. He heard scraping but he didn’t understand. “My leader—”

He heard a scoff. “Your leader? The one you blindly followed? The one that tortured so many?”

He felt tears pool in his eyes again, exhaustion not allowing him to get up. “Stop…”

“That’s what they begged. They cried. They shouted. They screamed. And what did you do to stop them? Nothing. You did _nothing_. And you didn’t even care for any of your people.”

He couldn’t listen anymore, he couldn’t. It was too painful, the sounds of his nation’s screams echoing through his head. That’s when he heard the rough screech of wood on stone, and the discomfort of being lifted onto… a stool. A simple wooden stool, his stool, the one he used to stack bundles of colourful, bright flowers on, in a lovely clear vase. Another shot of pain arced through his heart; was it physical, or was it because of all the memories that arose?

With the shuffling of feet, Germany was sat on the chair in a more proper manner, then nudged back to lean against a wall. And with that, shoes against gravel, and America was gone. At least, that’s what he assumed. 

Germany’s blindness prevented him from realizing who was there, and it felt helpless to be in this situation. It was, in itself, a helpless situation to anyone. Everything stayed in his mind, exactly what he didn’t want, and as he sat there, the crushing weight of the situation finally seemed to make itself present. Tears trickled down his cheeks, cutting through the dirt and grime once again. No one seemed to remember that the man they so clearly hated was almost nothing more than a boy himself. 

“I’ll return soon,” America promised, almost startling Germany. He didn’t even realize he was still there. “I’ll bring food and medication. Sit tight.”

Germany heard him, and he almost registered what he was going to say. The idea that he was going to be left alone like this? Blind and unable to do anything without guidance? It terrified him. He couldn’t breathe suddenly, and even as the obviously powerful presence of America left, he couldn’t regain it. Gone. Everyone he had trusted and loved and longed for was gone. 

It hurt.


	2. Inkling of Light

From what America had implied, it only seemed like he would leave Germany alone for a few hours, perhaps even a day. But he wasn’t prepared to be left alone for… well. Months. 

He couldn’t decide if it was a bad or good thing that nations were, for the most part, immortal. On one hand, he could continue to live and time passed quicker for him; never to starve to death, never to thirst to death. But on the other, he was left to decay with no ability to do so. Sitting on the stool, too weak to move, too paranoid to sleep, too hungry to think, too thirsty to swallow. He sat in a daze. 

At first he did his best to keep track of the days, recounting the time the meeting had ended and approximately how long America had carried him for, plus the time he had taken to get to the stool… it all factored in. He counted and counted, doing whatever he could to keep his mind occupied. He didn’t want to go insane. 

Rather abruptly after about four months, Germany was shaken out of his daze by the sound of footsteps. It was almost so surprising, he assumed he had finally done it; he thought his mind broke or someone had come to take him to hell. Or…

“America…?” He croaked, throat beyond dry. He could barely move his mouth without his lips and voice cracking. 

“No,” came the reply; a softer, higher voice than America’s. One he had heard only a few times, but he also knew so well. “North Italy.”

“Come to gloat?” Germany wheezed, somehow managing to make semi-coherent sentences. How had he not been driven to madness? “Spit? Take land and my home? _Kill_ me?”

Okay, so he was just a bit more mad than he thought. 

He heard footsteps and the sound of a bit of tin, which confused him. That sounded exactly like… 

“Nothing like that. I’ve come to fix your wounds. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He hesitated, wondering if he should deny it, but it was probably obvious. It had been ages since he _hadn’t_ felt blood trickling down onto the ground. “Suppose so.”

“You ‘suppose’. Right.” Italy could see the pool of blood on the ground, beneath the wooden stool Germany was slumped on. “Okay, well, I’m here to at least bandage your wounds. Look at all the blood on the ground, have you not seen it?”

He noticed how Germany seemed to slink back, blue eyes wide. Something was different about them. 

“I… I can’t… I can’t see.”

That made so much more sense, Italy noticed. The milky iris was a bit obvious, and he felt bad for not noticing it earlier. “Oh… well. I can tell you, it’s a lot of blood. How long have you been here?”

Italy watched Germany flinch at each footstep, even though he tried to make them as soft as possible. Now that he was closer, he saw the true extent of the damage. The little tin that he brought full of medical supplies might not be able to cover all the wounds. Perhaps just the bigger wounds would be good.

Gently, he placed his hand on Germany’s unwounded forearm. The pale, slightly freckled skin was icy. It felt dead, had it not been for the very miniscule beat of the heart that he could feel. It was obvious that Germany was very hesitant to let people touch him. 

Ignoring his own discomfort in touching what felt like a dead human body, he slowly started to pet Germany’s arm. “I’m not going to hurt you, Germany.”

“You have every right to…” the blond murmured, but Italy felt him relax at the rhythmic touch. It was most likely welcome, the warmth of his hand. 

“I don’t. I’m not like that.” Slowly, he moved to prop Germany up a bit more, easily pushing the still-occupied stool closer to the remaining wall behind them. That way, he could lean back a bit and not fall off, which would be a bit more freeing. “Here, Germany, do you think I could clean you up a bit?”

The only response was a silent nod, and Italy nodded back despite the other not being able to see him. He paused petting Germany’s arm, grabbing the tin of supplies. “Where does hit hurt the most?”

“Back,” he mumbled, leaning against the wall gently but only with his head. He visibly kept his back from touching the wall, which brought Italy’s attention to it. 

“Okay. Is that where all the blood is coming from?”

A nod.

“I’m going to remove your clothing, is that okay?” He asked cautiously. The closer he got to the wound, the more obvious it was that it was the source of the blood. “I can wash your clothes as well. I can shower you, too, if you’d like.”

There was a long pause, Germany cracking his eyes open a bit. “Why?”

“I want to help.”

That seemed to bring peace of mind to Germany, and he nodded. 

After the completely blood-soaked shirt and pants were removed, which took a while, Italy started to work on Germany’s back, which turned out to be much deeper and wider than he had anticipated. It seemed, though, as if Germany couldn’t feel the stitches being put in after Italy had washed it. No flinching, no straining, he just sat as Italy finished and bandaged it.

“Does that feel okay?” He asked, tipping his head a bit in question as he made the last few adjustments. Germany just shrugged a bit, to which Italy sighed. All of these short, silent answers were getting annoying, but he couldn’t really blame the other for it. He practically bled out several times over. “Okay. I don’t have enough bandages for anything else but I’ll wash your clothes and get more, alright?”

“Okay.”

It was hard to see Germany’s face; the light outside was milky, and whatever roof was left was lending a lot of shade. 

Italy bundled up the clothes in his arms, balancing them so he was still able to pet Ludwig’s arm for a little bit. “I’ll come back to you, okay?” 

Nothing. No answer this time, no nod, nothing. He seemed to be exhausted, and considering he had no idea when the last time someone visited was, Italy didn’t blame him. 

“I’ll return shortly.”

With that, he carefully made his way out of the broken home, stepping over piles of roof tiles, bricks, furniture, and pillars that had fallen, and leaving Ludwig alone; hopefully just a bit more comfortable on the stool he was confined to.


	3. So Be It

Ludwig was definitely surprised when it barely took any time for Feliciano to come back. Compared to the last time someone left him, it felt like no time before the tell-tale sound of gravel crunching underfoot signalled that someone had come— or returned. 

He had been able to heal just a little bit, now that his bigger wounds had been easily taken care of by the deftly-fingered Italian. Now it was time for the smaller cuts. 

“You looked surprised to see me,” Feliciano commented when he had settled in, cotton pad in hand. “Were you not expecting me to return?”

Ludwig shook his head. With the flinching and shyness, it was quite obvious he was still on edge around people, which made sense. A heavy weight of empathy for the other nation sat low in Feliciano’s chest; this didn’t seem like Germany— or rather, Ludwig— at all. Then and there, he vowed to change it. He wanted Ludwig to be happy again. 

“Well, here I am! Also, I brought a shovel; I’m willing to get your home cleaned up so it’s more comfortable for when you sleep.” Feliciano smiled kindly, though it faltered when he remembered Germany couldn’t see. 

“Thank you,” came the timid reply. Or maybe it was exhausted, he couldn’t really tell. 

The little scrapes were quick to patch up, thankfully. The silence between the two nations wasn’t awkward, but it was long. Feliciano wanted nothing more than to ask a thousand questions, each one rising to the back of his throat before melting away. Finally, he just decided on one. “How are you feeling?”

Another long pause, before, “like I got run over by a Panzer.”

He didn’t know if that was supposed to be a joke or if Ludwig was speaking from experience, but he couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Oh, I see. Well, I’ll be sure to get you all fixed up!”

Was that a little smile? He had glanced over just to see, and he nearly thought he caught the tail-end of something. But it seemed to be gone immediately, so he couldn’t be too sure.

He checked the largest wounds, making sure that they were starting to heal— and they weren’t, not really, but they had at least stopped bleeding. At least that was going well for Germany. Well… Ludwig. Germany itself had a while to go yet. Glancing over his shoulder back out onto the street, Feliciano couldn’t help but feel so bad and even a bit helpless. There was nothing that he could really do; aside from bandaging Ludwig up, he couldn’t help the people. If Ludwig wasn’t doing well, then the country wouldn’t do well. 

Unless…

“I think I have an idea,” Feliciano murmured to himself. When he noticed Ludwig straighten slightly at the words, he said it a bit louder. “And, I think that I’ll have to use a broom to clean everything up. Do you have one, Ludwig?”

There was a sound of confusion from the man, before he paused, then nodded. “Around the corner from the front door to the left, in the small coat closet… if it’s there.”

At least the blond was sane enough to give directions. 

Feliciano hopped to his feet, finding the broom in the remnants of what would have been the coat closet, and began to sweep all the rubble into a pile at the side of the house. This was going to take a while, and he knew that, but something was sort of pushing him to do it. He wanted to help Ludwig get back on his feet and if it meant cleaning up the ruined home, so be it.


	4. Voices Heard

It took quite a while for Feliciano to finally get the floors of the place looking at least a bit decent— a few days, in fact— before he started to sort what bricks he could find. On top of that, everything seemed to be getting a bit better, actually. When he looked over Ludwig’s wounds, they were still there but the bleeding had stopped. It was a fantastic sign. 

Ludwig didn’t talk much the entire time he did, and, well, Feliciano couldn’t blame him for that. So, instead, he filled the silence by talking about everything he was doing. 

“I’m glad that you’re getting better. Before you know it, you’re going to be helping me build this place up again!” Feliciano exclaimed, dropping another brick into the ‘use to rebuild’ pile. “I’m sure you’ll be up and at it again soon!”

The excitement and voice that Feliciano used to talk to him just seemed so fake to Ludwig, if he was honest. He knew Feliciano spoke like that normally, but it was a stark contrast from his brothers’ deep voice. He almost found it… patronizing. As if Ludwig was someone to talk down to. He wasn’t! He was strong! “Stop talking like that.”

Feliciano blinked, straightening up and glancing at Ludwig despite the other’s inability to see his expression. “What?”

“That voice. The high one. You don’t have to pretend like I’m delicate,” Ludwig snapped, glaring best he could. Unfortunately he wasn’t looking at Feli at all, but rather very angrily at the wall.

“I don’t see what you mean,” Feli chuckled, a bit embarrassed. “This is how I usually talk.”

“But that’s not your real voice, is it?”

He hesitated, then sighed, leaning down to continue his sorting. Almost done, just a few more… “No, it’s not…”

“Then why use it?” Ludwig demanded, settling back on his chair. 

“It’s not really something I’d talk about… but if you want me to stop using it, I will,” the auburn man murmured. 

“I would prefer that.”

Feliciano cleared his throat, embarrassed how rusty his voice must sound without the high, innocent veil. Higher than his brothers by only a bit. “Very well.”

Okay, so that voice… made Ludwig’s stomach twist. At first, he thought it was a bad way, but… no. It was… satisfaction, he assumed. “Better.”

“Mm.” Feliciano felt a bit more tense then. He didn’t want to have to explain why he used the high voice— mainly to appear more innocent, but there were much deeper reasons he didn’t want to get into— so he started to sweep the pile of rubble out of the house so he wouldn’t have to be near Ludwig. It would just be better that way. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t last long, and as soon as he re-entered the house, Ludwig immediately spoke up. “I don’t see why you would need to do the high voice if this one sounds so much more intimidating.”

Intimidating was a word that Feliciano wasn’t used to hearing, _especially_ about himself. “It’s a long story…”

“Well, I’m blind and bored. I have time,” Ludwig hummed, kicking his legs a bit. He almost looked like a young boy. Feliciano knew that wasn’t far off from the truth…

He sighed, sitting carefully on a piece of unbroken wall. “Back when I was young—”

“Is this going to be a long story?” Ludwig huffed. 

“Shut up, you wanted to hear it. And no, it’s not long,” Feliciano replied crossly. “Anyway, back when I was a kid, my father used to sort of take out his anger on us. My brother and I. It wasn’t as bad for me because I learned from a very young age that appearing more like a young girl— or at the very least, more feminine— would generally invoke a sense of compassion or an unwillingness to hit a girl. So I sort of… posed as one, for my caretakers after my father died. The habit of keeping my voice high sort of stuck, I suppose. I never really needed to change it.”

“But you had to fight in a war, wouldn’t that make you feel sort of weak?”

“Well, that’s sort of the point,” Feliciano admitted. “I personally don’t like fighting and I don’t like high expectations. If I set the bar low for people, they expect less of me and are pleasantly surprised when I happen to do something right. It just feels better that way.”

Ludwig didn’t seem to understand still, and asked a few half-baked questions that Feliciano didn’t understand too well. But he finally went silent, leaning back against his wall again. “Ah.”

With that, Feliciano kicked his feet a bit. Break the silence with a joke, he supposed. “I don’t think anyone thinks I’m a girl anymore, considering I’m so hairy and stuff, now.”

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t see.”

Okay, clearly this was Feli’s cue to leave. It wasn’t like Lud was going to share anything in return and Feliciano had no other supplies to do anything with. Jumping back into his feet, he stretched. “Well—”

“I wish I had thought of that when I was younger,” Ludwig admitted quietly. The gentleness made Feli stop immediately. 

“You do?”

The blond nodded quietly. “My brother… was… interesting. He was raised by our father which meant he was very old-fashioned. He tried to do his best to be loving, and I appreciate it, but he wasn’t… gentle. That’s the last word I would use to describe him. As much as he would spend time with me to keep us on good terms, if I didn’t follow his orders to a T, he wouldn’t be happy and often resort to old punishment methods.”

Feliciano expected that, honestly— Gilbert probably wasn’t one of the best people to raise a kid— but the way Ludwig seemed so affected by it made his heart hurt. “I see…”

“It’s good you figured something out,” Lud shrugged, sighing. 

As much as Feli wanted to comfort him, he knew the other didn’t like it. And as much as he wanted to stay, he needed to head back to his home for work. So he nodded, straightening up just a bit. “Yes… and Ludwig, I’m going to leave now. But I’ll return very soon. I’ll bring food if I can, okay?”

The broken blond man, on the broken beaten stool, in the broken battered house, simply nodded, closing his hazy white eyes. “Okay.”

 _Now, how much money could I spend on rebuilding Ludwig’s house_ , Feliciano wondered. And why was he so invested in it?


End file.
